Toxic
by WL.Erkling
Summary: War touches everyone. [Post-war; multi-viewpoint drabble series]
1. Draco

Disclaimer: Characters, settings, themes, etc. from the Harry Potter universe are property of J.K Rowling. I make no profit from the writing or sharing of this story.

* * *

DRACO

* * *

Draco was bred for darkness, but every day he sits in it, wallows in its waste and regrets having even a taste of it.

Here—in this room—he can forget. He doesn't have to remember the death on his hands or the stains on his soul.

No—here, he gets to fly.

Harry mentioned this place, this practice, in one of his ramblings before—well, before—and he was intrigued enough to look it up, seek it out. Here Draco never chooses. That's part of the beauty in it.

He sits in the dark for an hour, letting his mind wander. It always strays too far—so far he can't reel it in—and that's when _he_ steps forward. The rough hands on his neck are shocking, but he likes the way they compress him, make him something less than he feels he should be.

They start easy. His biceps are bound in a cage, then wrapped around behind his back. A similar bit of knotwork forms on his calves and he shivers against the rope before fluttering his eyes at the man he never sees.

When he's maneuvered to his belly, arms and legs brought up behind him, he feels his weight sink painfully into his joints.

Then comes nothing. There's no tingling at the loss of sensation or hardening of his cock. Instead, Draco feels only a loss of pressure, of choice.

He doesn't know how long he spins in that room. He doesn't know how long the tear streaks up his forehead until it spills to the floor.

What he knows is when he's released, the marks in his skin stay. He doesn't spell them away or take potions for the ache he'll feel later.

What he knows is that walking back through that door means feeling the pressure and—some days—he'd rather freefall in the darkness.


	2. Luna

LUNA

* * *

There are many now, where before there were few. The call to Abnoba is strong in her priestess, in the hand that holds the fox above the stone.

Woven, waxen hair dips into the bowl beneath her full hands, life spilling out in a river of youth and silence. Breathing deeply, she holds the beast with reverence. Bloody thumbs run along its eyes and mark them taken.

Her smile is soft above the dagger. Its edge glints only once before she plunges it just below the ribs, jerking upward once-twice-many times. When her fingers slip inside to feel her warmth, to cup her heart, Luna sighs.

Jagged on her wrists, ribs drag back along her skin, but she doesn't crack them further. Instead, she digs with the knife until she's able to remove the heart, the thick-walled flesh firm beneath her fingers.

"You ask not that we give to you, Abnoba, but we do so out of love." She looks down at the carcass on the stone, fur dripping with blood. "We revel in your life!"

Several hands reach out to grab the fox, holding it aloft until it's skinned and turning over the flame. Luna passes the bowl around, the hint of red on her lips a testament to her worship.

When she reaches Draco, hood pulled up so that his face remains hidden, she leans forward, tucks the bowl beneath his cloak.

"We all need something to believe, in," she whispers, turning to the next religious vagrant.

To the clearing, she says "Abnoba loves us all, even if we have yet to find her." Soft chants rise from the crowd as Luna writhes among them. Some nod, while others seem in a trance.

She makes her way back to the makeshift altar, stands high above it, and shifts the bowl to one hand. With the other, she plunges her fingers into the remaining blood, dredging up the heart from where it marinates.

This, she brings to her lips, soft around the muscle as blood drips down her chin. In his mind, in _their_ minds, she sighs, speaking softly "This is yours— _ours_. We are the world. Abnoba gives us life. Remember." Draco licks his lips softly as she takes another savage bite. " _Remember."_


	3. Ginny

She sits in the silence—absorbing it, _devouring_ it.

At first, she came to the edge of nothing to find herself, but she realized that finding herself wasn't what she wanted—she wanted to lose everyone, everything else. When she walks through the trees, fingertips trailing paths down rough bark, she _remembers_.

Ginny doesn't want to remember. She doesn't want to think about the way her head would fall back against Harry's shoulder so his lips could land softly against her neck. She doesn't want to remember the ghost of Luna's hands about her waist, holding her between them as if she were a treasure they'd discovered and kept—a secret to admire.

She doesn't want to think about the words they spoke after, when their bodies were sated, yearning, _burning_. The words she remembers were beautiful and cruel; they were perfect pieces of destruction that tore her apart because they weren't meant for her.

No—they were never meant for her.

She shudders as her knees buckle, sinking to leaves and dirt and decay. Scrambling with nails that are already full of regret, Ginny tries to steady her breathing.

They didn't love her; they loved each other. She had nothing. She _has_ nothing.

The silence helps. She remembers the rush of voices when she'd returned to the Burrow after learning the truth. It was too much—the pity. Ginny hiccoughs into a handful of leaves in her hands, struggling to breathe.

This is where she needs to be. She needs the silence; she needs the freedom from the prison they kept her in. Here, she is free.

Free to remember. Free to be _forgotten_.


	4. Ron

He grins as the other man's fist comes at him again. It lands roughly against his shoulder, shoving him back against the wall. He lifts his chin in defiance.

"That all?"

The other man grunts and pulls out his wand. "I'll show you pain, fucking punter."

Ron growls now, his wand dropping from an arm holster. It's a matter of speed now, but he's not sure he wants to be first.

He lets the spell hit him.

It's a vicious stinging hex and he closes his eyes to the prickling at his hip, where it radiates outward. He looks at the other man, who stares in horror as he realizes Ron let it happen.

"The fuck?" He starts backing away as Ron steps forward, the tip of his wand visible as he purses his lips and casts a _Reducto_ at the ceiling above them. The man panics, scrambling backward, stumbling and falling.

"Is that really all you've got?" Ron asks calmly. "I expected better." He leans over the prone man, whispering in his ear now.

"Weasley!" The call comes from across the dingy pub and Ron turns slowly, not wanting to leave his prey.

He sighs. "Yes?"

"How many times are we going to do this, mate?"

"As many as it takes."

Several aurors stand in the room. Ron faces them with wand drawn, smirk splayed across his face, cigarette dropping ashes to the floor. He takes a long drag then flicks it away, the ember glowing as it flips through the air.

"Come on, Weasley. Let's not do this tonight, yeah?"

He smiles. It's a rough smile—there's a hint of sorrow at the edges, but he's happy nonetheless. "Sorry, lads. You know how this goes."

They throw up shields as Ron casts quickly. He's taking on injuries, but as each one glances off him, he laughs. It rings clear and loud through the room over the chaos. When one of them traps him in an _Incarcerous_ , Ron stops laughing.

He lays there until they get organized, until they figure out the portkey. It's Dean who hovers over him.

"I know Ginny's gone, but that doesn't give you permission to keep doing this."

Ron's face turns from placid to vicious and he snarls "You _don't_ talk about her."

"All right, mate," he says as he holds his hands up. "We won't talk about her, but it sure seems like you need to." Dean puts the portkey on his chest and says the activation phrase, "Wayward Weasley."

Ron is confused when the pull starts at his navel, but the only thought keeping him from lashing out is that he'll have a warm place to sleep for the night.


	5. Pansy

PANSY

* * *

She remembers the words that came out of her mouth.

"Take it, mate. I think you need it more than I do." He'd pressed her against the wall, shattered her before taking the vial anyway. She watched Ron go and shook her head, knowing he'd be back. They never stay away for long.

Empty. She's always empty. The quick shags in alleyways leave her emptier than before and all she has to show for it are empty pockets and a hand full of coins. She's not paid for the shagging—no. They pay for the drugs.

The first time she's offered Torch, she laughs in his face, says "I've got this, love," and walks away.

The second time isn't so simple. Everyone is broken; Pansy is broken. She has nothing to give and even less to offer. When that palm holds steady in front of her, the swirl of blue so mesmerizing, Pansy takes it.

Each time she takes it, she remembers. She remembers the words so clearly; it's as if his lips press just below her ear again and again, whispering against her racing pulse, trying to beat her heart to its stunning conclusion. "Not so fast, Pansy, darling." His lips are soft as they sink into her—through her. "You'll work for this."

She needed it. She needed something so desperately she took it without thought to the emptiness hollowing her out and the inability to fill it with anything but hatred. She didn't think she cared.

She still doesn't.

The hollow places have spread. They're at her elbows and are down to her knees. When she closes her eyes to the darkness, she remembers—then she _forgets_. She loses herself in the swirl of expectations and ideals. She drowns in traditions and plans for the future.

When she wakes—when everything is still again and something entirely _else_ fills the hollow spaces, she vomits it to the ether in a trail of smoke, wiping it from her mouth with hollow fingers.


	6. Hermione

HERMIONE

* * *

"Come on," she drawls. Hand outstretched, she beckons with a blue vial. "Take it. This will make you feel something. More than that," she says, nodding to the needle. "This will make you _burn_."

Ignoring Pansy is easy. The hum of the machine as it drives the needle into her skin is the reason she comes night after night.

"You know, you should really take a break," says the voice attached to the ink.

Hermione ignores it. She doesn't pay him for advice.

Her left arm rubs against the chair and she closes her eyes to the ache. Yesterday they almost finished. She'd wanted to do that first—but he was determined to have it wait—to let it come to him.

Despite not wanting _him_ to think, not wanting this to be another person's choice _again_ , Hermione said "Yes," then came back the next day and the next.

Her body isn't healing as fast now. Some of the lines take longer to heal and she uses magic to keep the ink fresh in the wounds.

No one accepts this—her. They can't fathom why she has such a need to change herself, destroy herself, _mark_ herself. They can't understand.

Something was taken from her. The choice was taken. Her body belongs to her, but she does not have control of it. Until that choice becomes hers, she won't be able to control the wild magic that courses through her or the way her throat tightens when someone stands over her.

No.

She needs this. She needs to feel every insertion of that needle—every second it passes across her skin as it punches through to leave its mark. This is her choice, hidden amongst the rubble of who Hermione is.

Who is Hermione? She is this, now. She is savage and free and something not entirely new— _yet_.


	7. Neville

NEVILLE

* * *

Hermione's words echo as he trudges down the bank, his toes trailing through stones and river blood. Her fingerprints stain his arm—a reminder of her permission to accept who he is now, who he has to be.

He feels the silt running through his veins, pieces of dirt and filth making circuits around his body and leaving traces of their darkness. He'd been covered in it—unable to clean it off—so he kneels in the water, bare from the waist up.

Fingers wrap tightly around the rope. He feels the thick handle, moves down to run a callused palm over knotted, frayed strands. When he looks out over the stream, listens to the water parting around him, all he can hear is the dirt grinding about inside him and it needs to come _out_.

His wrist jerks upward, a fine spray of water hitting the surface and falling across his face. As the rope whips over, bites into his back, he grunts, hisses, and bows forward. He clutches tighter at the handle, drags it forward into the water and swings again. There is a rhythm to it now.

Each time it digs deeper, he hisses in triumph, cries out a little softer in anticipation. It doesn't take so long anymore.

He looks to the water as it comes up and over his hips and smiles at the tinge of red. He continues flailing the rope, closes his eyes, and his mouth opens.

The last whip of the knotted tails throws water and other things over his skin, leaving him mottled with wounds.

His lips move in prayer to gods he doesn't believe in, saying words he doesn't understand. All he knows is the need to purge—to be released from the darkness—but when he closes his eyes, all he can hear is the grinding of silt in his veins.

So he starts again.


	8. Harry

HARRY

* * *

Green tile lines the floor—a stripe of cream the only thing that offsets the gloom. He counts steps to the familiar door. Seventy-three from the elevator; one more than last week. As he peeks through the small window, it's the same as always. His hand hesitates for just a moment before turning the knob. It's the deep breath that steadies him, the inhale of fresh air before he enters the stale room.

"Good morning, Harry."

There's no answer. There's never an answer.

Across the room, a wild mop of black hair twitches as Harry rocks back and forth in the corner. He sits on the floor today. Stepping closer, Neville reaches into his pocket, grabs a handful of candy and offers it to Harry. The other man absently takes a few pieces, but doesn't otherwise acknowledge Neville or the gift.

"You said you were part of me. You said you would stay." Harry's slapping at his thigh with one hand, grabbing at his ear with the other.

Neville reaches out to still the hand at Harry's ear and pulls it down gently—puts a piece of candy in it. Harry unwraps it and pops it in his mouth, chews while repeating "You were part of me. You were part of me."

He looks at Neville, not seeing him. "You said you would stay." Harry starts to whimper.

"I'll stay if you like, Harry."

The words seem to calm him and Neville realizes that Harry's put the candy wrapper in his open palm. When he looks down, he chokes on a stuttering breath.

"I'll stay with you, Harry."

Neville backs away from the broken man on the floor and Harry starts tugging at his ear again.

"You promised. You promised you'd stay!"

Harry curls up in a ball, closes his eyes, and clutches the remaining candy as he falls asleep. He doesn't notice the click of the door as Neville leaves or the way he uses the wall to support his weight before he falls to the floor—just as broken.


End file.
